In the Shadow of Angels: The Guardian Series 1 (13 page)

Chapter
Sixteen

I sit again brain-numbingly bored, in the overly decorated parlor, my finger tracing the floral pattern on the settee. The heat from the fire warms my legs, the flickering light casting shadows around the dim room. Light cracking sounds pop in the background as the wood burns, filling in the quiet space between conversations.

Claudette drones on about something, but I'm not listening. The pale rose wine in my hands holds my attention more than her. People that live in a chateau in France should be better conversationalists. My mother has yet to arrive, and Henri is close-lipped whenever I try to mention her. I get the feeling they are biding time, waiting like I am, until Abigail arrives.

My days have been spent walking around the chateau snapping pictures. But even I, who love photography, am getting sick of the same setting. How many close ups of roses, or sunsets over a castle, can one person have? I'd much rather have its residents, but no one has offered to model, not even the eyelash batting, grinning Claudette.

Henri disappears to his office each morning or has to leave for some secret scientist meeting. Claudette does whatever it is woman like her do during the day. More than likely it involves creating potions and talking with the devil in a gilded magic mirror. Aydin, I still am not sure what Aydin does, but I know it involves the suits that follow me around and the equipment in the basement. It all adds up to something mildly unnerving, and though I will never admit it out loud, erotically voyeuristic.

I have learned to ignore Aydin, pushing his energy away, leaving it shadowing me. He has become a light hum, a live wire, popping and sizzling in the background, threatening to catch fire to the room he is in. I know he is there, but I tune him out, hoping he will go away before things go up in raging inferno.

“Anyone feel like sharing why my mother left Florida twelve years ago?” I ask, coldly.

Claudette shifts next to me. She is in a flesh colored lace cocktail dress that seems overly dramatic, even for Claudette. I, on the other hand, have chosen a skin tight red dress that reveals a good portion of my legs and breasts. I guess I’m feeling dramatic as well. I have finished my first glass of wine at dinner and watch as Claudette refills it. My head is fuzzy, making it hard to hide my annoyance.

Henri sits forward, I can see the nightly ritual is wearing on him as well. “I’m sorry, Char, I know this is hard. Ashur says he will bring Abby soon.”

Did he just call my mother Abby? Seriously?

The urge to scream is in my throat and I close my eyes. My teeth keep my jaw shut tight; I worry if I open my mouth, nothing but years of anger will come spilling out.

“Did you take many pictures today?” Aydin’s voice startles me, and my eyes pop open. I have worked so hard to ignore him, I almost forgot he is sitting in the room with us.

“Yes. I did.”

“You’ve spent most of your time in the gardens,” he says.

I shoot him a smirk. Aydin would know, considering I can barely take a bathroom break without Lance. There are probably cameras in there was well.

“Yes, I have. Actually, we could play a game of ‘Where’s Lance?’ in all my pictures.” I say, my tone like venom. Aydin sits quiet, his face telling me nothing as I continue. “We have become so close, Lance and I. Practically inseparable. Soon we will be picking out towels and setting a date.”

“I’ll ask him to be more discrete.” Aydin rubs his finger over his bottom lip, his face un-amused. He’s so contained, it is infuriating.

“How about you ask him to give me some more space.” I’m acting hostile and rude, but I can’t seem to stop myself. “I’m in a guarded castle. You’ve got this place locked up tighter than Fort Knox.”

“That is my job.”

His job.
The overbearing security that has been assigned to me for some inexplicable reason. Secret Organization or not, it all just seems like overkill. I let out a sigh and drink more wine. It is pointless. My mother has to return at some point and she can have her say. Then I will go from there, though I have a feeling it won’t involve me staying in France much longer.

Aydin glides forward, the soft material of his suit making silky sounds, and sits down directly across from Claudette and I. “I’ll ask Lance to take some days off.”

“How kind,” I say, sarcastically. I don’t
want
to be rude.

Aydin sits back, practicality pushing Henri off the sofa. I am again struck by how large he is. “What draws you to the gardens?”

My eyes wander over Aydin’s face, his metal eyes, and gaunt cheeks, letting the question hang in the air. The entire room hangs suspended; waiting for me, the rude guest, to answer.

“The light.”
Fine. I’ll play along.
“Your gardens are beautiful. But the light is perfect in the afternoons. The way the sun peeks over the mountains, it turns the entire garden into a speculator contrast of dark and light.”

“I would love to see,” Aydin says.

I hesitate, “I will get the laptop.”

“I will walk with you.”

Oh good.
Aydin is the very last person I want to follow me around.

Henri stands and grabs my hand, bringing it to his lips. The move is an obvious display and I refrain from rolling my eyes. “I’ll find you in a bit, I have some work to do.”

Aydin takes a different route to the wing Henri and I stay in, passing by the Great Hall.

“Can you imagine the parties this room must have held?” I ask and walk into the massive room. I can imagine women in silk gowns, their hair powdered. The men wearing leggings, sweeping elegant ladies across the gleaming wooden floor.

“You, Miss Charlotte, are a romantic.” Aydin’s voice is hard and echoes from the doorway around the room.

“Whats wrong with that?” I ask, forgetting I am angry. My body is relaxed and light. The first time in days. Months. Years.

“There is nothing wrong. I just didn’t take you for one.” Aydin comes to stand with me in the center of the room. His body moves fluidly, not with the precise, purposeful steps he usually makes. More languid. His face is softer, the hard stone mask he always wears has slipped away.

“What do you make of me then?” I ask.

“A woman who relies on her common sense.” Aydin’s voice is softer, the sharp edges have disappeared. “But, one who wants to see the good in everyone.”

“And that doesn’t make me a romantic?”

“No, Charlotte, it makes you hopeful. Having hope does not make you a romantic, it makes you human.”

“Some would say it makes me naive.”

“Naivety is not looking at what is in front of you, not knowing enough to see there is evil. Being hopeful makes you see the good in spite of it.” He looks around the room. “Being a romantic makes you see the beauty in everything.”

“Then I am a
hopeful
romantic,” I say, backing away from him, and half waltzing toward the door, keeping his eyes locked to mine. His mouth breaks into a small grin. I like this Aydin. He isn’t so intense. Or maybe it is the wine, I don’t know, but this version of Aydin is easier to be around.

“Are you always this silly, Miss Charlotte?”

“Only when someone gives me too much wine, Mr. Thanos.” I raise my empty glass high in the air.

We walk in a more comfortable silence to another small stairway and Aydin leads me to the red hallway outside my room. I grab my camera, remove the memory stick and load the images onto the laptop. The program to view the pictures pops up and I click to enlarge them. I look up to see Aydin is still standing in the doorway to my room.

“You can’t see the pictures from there,” I say. Aydin steps into the room, slowly. I sit on the edge of the bed and pat the space next to me. He is tense again, it comes off of him in waves, as he sits next to me.

The first picture I pull up is of the entire garden. The sun is high overhead, too bright, highlighting the petals and leaves in a stark white light. I hand the laptop to Aydin, showing him how to click through the pictures.

He studies each image carefully. My heart flutters around, waiting for his reaction. He seems to like them, which makes me smile inwardly. Aydin stops when he comes to the photo of the pool. The picture was taken from one of the archways that surround it. The angle of the sun sent long sweeping shadows of the arches over the shallow pool. A single statue is centered in the photograph. The light caught one side of her face, making her appear as if she were split in two. One side brightly lit, the other a dark black mask giving her a deformed, almost demented look.

“You see the world for its beauty. Yet, you don’t hide how ugly it is.” He touches the screen lightly. A deep sadness drapes over me. Darkness edges its way into the room then disappears as quickly as it had inched in.

“And what does that make me?” I ask. Aydin’s profile is beautiful, long straight nose and thick lips. His eyelashes are so long, they brush his cheeks when he blinks. The hair in his face looks soft and it’s a fight to not reach out and run my fingers through it.

“A realist.”

“I’m a hopeful, romantic, realist. That doesn’t seem to fit together very well.”

He looks over and catches me staring at him. I bite my lip, trying to keep the blush that is spreading from my chest into my cheeks. I can practically feel his eyes move over my face, they almost seem alive, rippling like mercury. His gaze stops at my lips and move down to my chin. Aydin’s eyes land again on mine and he smiles, the corners of his eyes crease. My breaths catch in my throat.

Holy cow.
He has to know how sensual he is. It is like every movement he makes is intentional.

“Are you going to show me yours?” Aydin says, setting my laptop down.

What?

“Your camera, Miss Charlotte.”

Oh jeez.
It is amazing how deteriorated my thoughts become around this man.

I stand, take my camera out of the bag and hand it to him before sitting back down. Aydin holds it out, inspecting it carefully.

“Be careful, it has little buttons and nubs that are sensitive,” I say.

Oh, good grief.
This guy is dangerous to be around.

Aydin turns his brows up slightly and the corner of his mouth twitches.

“I don’t want the card erased,” I explain, painfully.

“I know my around these things.”

“Oh, yes. I forgot. Your fascination with cameras,” I tease.

Aydin shifts suddenly, and hands me the camera. He stands and his eyes scan the room quickly. With long strides, he walks to the open terrace doors and shuts them.

“You must keep these locked at night,” he says, sternly.

Wow, complete 180 in nano-seconds.

“Because someone may fly in and grab me?”

“Because I said you must.”

“OK,” I say.

Henri appears in the doorway. He looks frazzled when he sees Aydin in the room. As he should be, considering the way I behave alone with this guy. “There you are.”

“Charlotte was showing me her little pictures,” Aydin says, his voice frosty.

Little pictures?

“Charlotte has an amazing eye.” Henri walks toward me and wraps his arm around my waist. “She is quite talented.”

Aydin’s face has become stone. The soft edges I had caught sight of have disappeared. This Aydin, I don’t like.

“She, is very tired.” I pull away from Henri. His possessive moves are starting to wear on me, the constant hand kissing and lip brushing. Aydin nods his head and leaves the room in silence. Henri smiles victorious, he seems to have won that round.

“I’m going to call it a night,” I tell him.

“I’ll be right in the other room if you need anything,” Henri says, his hands reaching for mine.

I kiss his cheek lightly and turn away. I’m not in the mood for anyone, my body is sore, and stiff. The tension of the last few days, wearing me thin.

After he leaves, I walk to the terrace doors and open them wide in defiance. The night air is cool and washes the tension away. I hope Abigail returns soon. I dread facing her, but the idea of being stuck here any longer is exhausting.

Chapter
Seventeen

I wake in the late afternoon feeling restless. I have waited patiently for my mother to return, though I know it will end the comfortable routine that has developed. Claudette, it seems, could sit for hours, and listen to the stories Henri and I tell her of the plantation. I know they have knowledge of the accident, of our life with Emily, but I refuse to tell the stories that involve my twin. I made the mistake of speaking her name once. I am not going to do it again.

No one talks of my mother. It is as if they say her name, I will suddenly remember I am in France solely to see her and start questioning everyone. I play nice. I don’t ask questions. I have been at the chateau for one week. I have counted the days. But I have waited long enough. I knock loud on Henri’s bedroom door.

When Henri opens his door, he is shirtless, wearing only boxer briefs that cling to his thick muscular legs, forming around his body. My mouth pops open.

“Good morning, or should I say, afternoon,” he grins, stepping back and letting me into the room. He doesn’t bother to dress, instead sits down at the large desk in the corner. I lean up against it, making it a point to not look at him. I do not look at his tanned chest, or the light dusting of hair spread over it. Nor do my eyes greedily drink in the thin line that runs from his navel to just below the inside of those too-tight boxers.

I glance down at his desk, purposely not eyeing all these things, and see papers scattered over the top, a vial of red liquid rests on top. Henri catches me looking and puts it in the drawer of his desk. My brows knit and I eye him, everyone’s weirdness is making me paranoid.

“So, when do I get to see Abigail? When does all this get explained?” I wave my hand over his desk at the various files. I want to ask what he is doing, but I know he won’t tell me.

“Soon, I promise. Ashur says by next week at the latest.”

Next week?

“Great,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest. I don’t think I can handle this much longer. “You know, I’ve been very nice this past week, letting you slide on the subject.”

“You have been a good girl.” Henri moves from behind his desk to stand near me. I have to work hard to keep my eyes focused on his, trying desperately not to look at his body and his tight boxers.

“I usually am.”

“Except, right now,” he smiles coyly at me. “Right now you seem to be having a hard time concentrating.”

“Henri, you are practically naked.”

“I can get completely naked.”

I have to laugh, breaking the tension that is building inside me. Butterflies flutter in my stomach as I move away from him, but he reaches out and grabs my arm.

“Being near you is driving me insane,” Henri’s says, his jaw clenched.

“I’m sure all the women you sent into those stores would love to hear that.” I give him a withered look.

“What?” His brows turn down, confused before he breaks out into a loud laugh. “That explains your behavior.”

“What is so funny? It’s obvious the owners knew you well and what you liked.”

“Charlotte, I told the owners to expect you.” He is still smiling and once again closes the space between us. “I have lived with Abigail for twelve years, I don’t know how many times I’ve gone in those stores to pick up items for her. She’s practically kept them in business.”

“You’ve picked up lingerie for my mother?”
Talk about mommy issues.

“You bought lingerie?” He asks and pulls at the straps of my dress, teasing. I back away, swatting at his hands and can’t help but laugh. That would explain why they knew him so well, but it still doesn’t sit well with me.

“Sorry Henri, but they seemed adamant about your preferences, leaning more toward lacy, frilly things.”

His face turns serious. “I pick up pre-wrapped boxes. I really don’t want to know what Abigail wears.” He stands close, heat from his body seeps through my thin dress. “But, I think it’s pretty cute you were jealous.”

“I wasn’t jealous.” I can’t help the flush that fills my cheeks.
Damn him.
I never considered the woman had made assumptions.
Like I have.

“Yes, you were. Now let’s get back to these lacy, frilly things I have yet to see.” He is smiling again, that smile, the one that turns my legs to Jell-O.

For an entire week I have pushed away all emotions that came up, not wanting to acknowledge that after so many years, I still care for him. Yeah, I love him. Of course, I love him. He’s Henri. But I am pretty sure at this point, I am simply in love with his memory.

Tension fills the air and I know I’m in trouble. Not to mention the fact he is almost naked. Half the work has already been done for me. Everything in me screams to dive in head first. Forget checking the water, ignore the warning signs and jump, consequences be damned. It doesn’t matter it is shallow water, it looks dark and tempting.

Henri steps closer and runs his hands down my arms. The skin tingles and goosebumps raise over my skin. His eyes darken, the gold flecks shimmering with desire. Henri’s breathing is heavier, and my stomach drops. He leans in and grazes his lips over mine, his tongue darting out, tasting. His body is hot, his excitement hard against my belly.

Henri pulls me closer, wrapping his hand around my back, and deepens the kiss. My toes tingle and I lean into him, gripping his shoulders. My lips part, allowing him in, tasting the familiar clean, earthy scent of him, feeling the sandpaper scruff over my cheeks. I squeeze my eyes shut, ignoring the pain in my chest and tightness in my throat. This. This is what I have wanted. Henri.

The loud pound on the door breaks the frenzied air. Henri moans in frustration. I push away, blinking rapidly, and suck in a deep breath.

“Really, really bad timing!” He shouts at the door and reaches for a pair of pants.

“I’m sorry, Sir, but, Mr. Thanos says it is important, and he needs to speak with you immediately,” Lance says from the other side of the door, his voice muffled. Henri laughs, an edgy sound. He presses his fingers to his eyes, mumbling something I can’t hear under his breath.

I walk like I’m escaping, which in reality I am, to the door and open it. I ignore the expression on Lance’s face and slink back into my room, guiltily. My heart pounds, my palms sweat, and I shut the door to my room too loud. This is the last thing I need to be doing. Falling into bed with Henri I know will be disastrous. There are too any unspoken issues and too many wounds that still bear scabs.

----------

“You call me again and I’m just gonna block you.” Janice’s voice is far away over the phone line.

“It’s me,” I say, quickly.

“Charlotte!” Jan screams. “The number is blocked, I thought it was a bill collector.”

“Sorry,” I say. “How are you?”

“Good, good,” Janice’s voice is excited. It feels good knowing she has missed me. “How’s everything with your momma?”

“I have yet to see her, she is in Nice for treatments and is too sick to travel.”

“Oh no, I’m sorry, honey.”

“I should be seeing her soon,” I continue. Janice’s sympathy hits me hard, I have stayed ridged for so long. “How is everything at home?”

She fills me in on the latest gossip around the motel. Norm, she says, suddenly moved out. No explanation. Just packed up his truck and left. His warning echos in my head. I hope he is OK.

“But, that is enough about crap here. So, tell me, how are things with that hottie Ex of yours?”

“Complicated,” I laugh. “I’m not sure what to do about him.”

“I got plenty of ideas if you need some.” Her voice hints that her ideas will probably make me blush.

“I mean, about what to think,” I say, still laughing. I have missed her. “He is keeping something from me, but I don’t know what, Janice.”

“Whatever it is, who cares! The man is beautiful beyond belief.”

Part of me agrees, but my mind automatically goes to Aydin, which, I won’t admit, is becoming a problem. “The people here are strange,” I say. My description of Claudette leaves Janice laughing, her voice tinny.

“She sounds just lovely.”

“You have no idea. She’s so stuck up, she’d drown in a rainstorm.” I roll my eyes. “And, there is Aydin.” I’m not sure how to describe him, but decide to leave out his job title.

“Oh, what a sexy name,” Jan says, which I will agree, is true.

“He’s, well...” Dark, intense, and the few smiles I have seen leave me wanting more.

“Oh no,” Jan says, her tone exaggerated. “Don’t tell me you are caught in a love triangle!”

“Hardly,” I spit out. “I’m not interested in Aydin. He’s a bit rude.” I leave out that if I were into quiet and menacing I sure would be. That and I can’t be alone with him for more than five minutes before I’m flirting.

“Yeah, but is he good looking?”

Yeah, he’s gorgeous, arrogant, and inappropriately playful. Not to mention completely overwhelming.

“He’s ill,” I say as if this explains everything.

After I promise to send her pictures of the chateau, I hang up feeling lighter. I have missed her crass humor and garish laughter. My heart aches for home. I want my beach and my cottage. My solitude.

---------

The castle loses its ominous look during the day and holds a more enchanted appeal. Dense vines creep up portions and completely obscure some of the windows. The faded gray stone walls are pitted with age and years of dirt darken the edges of the leaded windows. I can see the tips of the peaked roofs, the shingles almost a dark blue. Wispy clouds float over the towers. The sun flares in the stained glass windows over the massive entrance. It looks like it was stolen from a fairy tale.

I have walked the grounds almost every day, each time wandering further from the chateau, finding new buildings and hidden gardens. I remember seeing an old bike sitting next to the gardener’s shed almost hidden by vines. The small village near the winery is only about three miles down a steep incline that snakes up from the main road. I hope the bike’s tires are good, it is a long shot, but I want to print up pictures to send to Janice.

I consider asking one of the suits that mill about to escort me into town, but like the idea of exploring on my own. There has been no mention of threats, and with the town being so close to the chateau, it is unlikely anyone will bother me there. Aydin has kept his word and I haven’t seen Lance for the last two days. Then again, he may have simply upped the stealth level.

The bike is where I had first spotted it, and I pull it free of the mass of vines. Luckily, the tires look good, maybe a little low, but it will make it at least into town. I wheel the bike along the path that leads around the castle. It goes downhill to a small river that creeps along the front of the chateau. A thick wooden bridge spans the banks of the river and the dirt path leads further down toward the main road, skirting the vineyards at the foot of the mountains.

I hop on the old bike and start the long ride to the town. With my yellow dress and vintage bike, I feel like I am in a scene from a movie. The dress flowing behind me as I pedal down the dirt roads, my golden hair shining in the light. All that is missing is a little basket hanging from the handlebars; a loaf of bread sticking out.

The ride is relaxing and easy, though I am a bit winded when I come into town. I spot several small shops and what looks like a general store, where I restock on a few items. Inside the stores, people greet me nice enough but seem wary of me.

The town is very small, village is a more appropriate term. It has a central plaza with an ornate fountain at its center. This seems to be the theme in France. Fountains and plazas. The architecture is similar to the winery up the road, reminding me more of what I imagine Italy would look like. Terracotta tiles on the roofs of the stone or stuccoed buildings. There are long cracks in the weathered walls that have been plastered and repaired. Bright flowers on thin vines crawl up the buildings. I remember how far east we are. The Mediterranean influence is everywhere.

Attached to the general store is another smaller shop. The sign outside reads “Signs’. In the window, there are several examples of said signs along with a few postcards and framed photographs of the winery. If this place can’t print picture’s, then I’m out of luck.

Vintage bottle labels from several eras hang framed on the walls as I enter. An older man sits in the back corner at a large desk. He looks up over thick glasses as the door chimes.

“Hello, I was hoping you could help me with printing up a few pictures.” I stand holding my purse tightly. The place is dark and smells of dust and metal. The man looks crabby, his frame is bent. He stands, holding his back and walks hunched, over to me.

“What is it you want to print?”

“Photographs.” I pull the memory stick from my purse, showing him.

“I can do that.” He doesn’t have much of an accent, which surprises me. He could even pass for American. “I am Pierre.”

Pierre smiles, revealing straight white teeth, the sign of dentures. I can’t help but smile back. He is friendly. Normal.